Cats and cats getting along like republicans and democrats,
yeah just like that / scratches appear
across fingers crossed / keep your arms and legs inside the moving vehicle
at all times / it was the worst of times, it was the worst of times / I’m afraid
nobody will ever be nostalgic for 2018 except maybe yours truly.
It was the year that truth became a man, a myth, a legend / a story
you believe but the cake is a lie / Zoom out
to discover it doesn’t really matter / All matter and mass and energy expanding
in the vast universe is destined to go nova.
In Spanish “nova” means “it doesn’t go” / How appropriate.
Sometimes.. well.. most times I like things neat and organized. I want the day to be planned out. I want things to have nice and neat beginnings and endings that are clear cut. I don’t want a lot left to interpretation. I want defined processes and things that make logical sense. I like it when everything is buttoned up and tied with a neat bow. I prefer order to chaos. I think most people do. I think I’m very average and not out of the ordinary with regards to these preferences. I believe that very few people wake up most days saying, let’s just see how crazy I can make this day. I could be wrong. I mean, I’ve talked to such a small fraction of the people alive today. It doesn’t matter anyhow, my point is I operate a certain way and don’t ever drift very far from that because it makes me uncomfortable.
I’ve tried to approach this whole school thing very methodically. Last semester seemed to go fine, but then again, I had less going on. This semester I’ve procrastinated and then scrambled – twice now – to get things done. I don’t like it. I hate missing deadlines and I’m beginning to get very frustrated with the fact that I can’t seem to find 2 solid hours to work on stuff. I’ve also tried to approach revisions and essays methodically. It sounds absurd, but I actually made a checklist of things to cover with each poem to make sure I’m following some sort of set of pre-determined rules. “Ask the poem what its about”. Sure sure, because I established early on that the poem has a mind of its own and has something it wants to say. See there, I started to rant about one thing and ended up on a whole tangent topic. That’s not organized.
What I am trying very hard to say, and not doing a very good job of explaining, is that this approach is not working. This daily balancing act, this paint by numbers approach to revision, this logical application of process and procedure. It’s just failing me. As I sit here, well past when I normally go to sleep, pontificating about how organization is failing me I’m leaning toward the brilliant idea of embracing chaos and allowing the random forces in the universe to work their magic. I’m feeling like letting things just fall apart and be messy. I want to try nonsense on for size and see how that fits me.
Consequences will always be tip-toeing behind me, sneaky bastards. I can’t stop them from whispering in my ear but I can hum a tune real loud in my head to drown out their incessant demands. So what? The kids need to eat vegetables, “let them eat cake” I say. Sure I’m supposed to work 30 hours, but what happens if I don’t. What will happen if I ignore all the emails, and notifications, and text messages. What will happen if I don’t vote or renew my car registration or change my furnace filter. Nothing that will keep the world from turning around the sun. What will happen if I write a poem and it has no point? If it’s really just nonsense? If it’s a drunk dream about dancing around with black licorice in a devastated dystopia? What if?
I can ask the poem what it wants to be about.. who the speaker is.. who the audience is.. where.. and when.. and how – but I don’t have to if I don’t want to.
I want to throw the rules for contemporary poetry out the fucking window. My heart sings in rhyme and you can laugh at that if you want to, because I don’t care. This situation I’m in has resisted organization. It’s a math proof that is un-verifiable because the steps don’t ever lead to the answer. So what if my brain writes poetry that doesn’t fit the times. I always knew I should have been born in the 17th century. Well, I didn’t ALWAYS know that. Maybe it’s all just an excuse. A thick plot to enable me to continue living under a rock.
It sounds like a rant, but it’s really not. It’s just me trying to fit this square peg of a tired mind into the round hole of a meaningful life. What other answer could there be than Chaos.